The Politics of Exile
by Dead Poet
Summary: My version of the story behind Thrawn's exile. Technically an AU, as it was written before the advent of official Chiss info. UPDATE: This story is in the process of a rewrite, which shall eventually lead to a sequel. I greatly appreciate any thoughts
1. Chapter 1

**The Politics of Exile**

_Chapter 1--Trials_

by Dead Poet

_originally published at fanfiction.net under my other author name, Celina Marniss_

  
"This is unacceptable!" Rann'eal'teristi, chief speaker of the Ruling Families, shouted. He made no effort to contain his anger He had ordered this meeting to be private for that very reason. He had wanted the opportunity to have his words with the accused, without citizens watching. They hadn't been happy. Everyone wanted the chance to say that they had been present for a trial that would, most likely become one of the most famous events in their lifetimes. They would just have to wait for the sentencing. 

Mitth'raw'nuruodo, the accused who had previously been submissively studying the tiled floor, now looked Rann'eal'teristi directly and defiantly in the eyes. 

"They were manufacturing weapons," he said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact despite his precarious position, "That, along with various other signs, indicated that they were preparing for an attack. I thought--" 

"No, you didn't think." Nael'are'tanari, another speaker interrupted him. 

"It was a weapons instillation!" Rann'eal'teristi yelled, "We can't attack people because they produce weapons!" 

"It isn't moral," Mattl'ark'eari, the third and final speaker added, a bit more calmly than the others. 

"Precisely," Rann'eal'teristi agreed, "Can you prove their intent?" 

"All the evidence pointed in that direction," Mitth'raw'nuruodo said, still calmly meeting the gaze on the enraged speaker. 

"But you have no proof. 'The only acceptable proof of an Enemy's intent at war is war itself'," Mattl'ark'eari said, quoting the Warriors' Code. 

Mitth'raw'nuruodo hesitated for a moment, all of the arguments he'd thought of against that code coming to mind once again. He'd watched his father and sister die because of that code. But he shook those memories away. Now was not the time for such thoughts. 

"We cannot keep waiting for an outright war," he said, "It is this lack of action that is killing our people." 

There was a moment of silence in with Mitth'raw'nuruodo thought perhaps the speakers were beginning to doubt there precious, ancient morals and codes. 

"No," Rann'eal'teristi broke the silence, "it is our Enemies that are killing our people." 

"Then they should be dealt with accordingly," Mitth'raw'nuruodo replied, his patience wearing thin. Why was he the only one who could see this? 

"We cannot sacrifice our morals in dealing with them," Mattl'ark'eari stated. 

"Would you sacrifice your morals if an Enemy held a knife to your throat?" Mitth'raw'nuruodo questioned, "Or that of your child?" He held back the vivid memories that threatened to assault him. He casually touched the high, black collar that hid his own scar from that same attack. 

The speakers had no answer. 

"Enough," Rann'eal'teristi stated gruffly, "This argument simply continues to run in circles. You are dismissed. We shall reconvene tomorrow for you sentencing." He threw Mitth'raw'nuruodo an icy glare that made it clear that he wasn't at all happy with this argument. He didn't like questions that he couldn't answer. 

Mitth'raw'nuruodo met that glare with defiance as a pair of guards emerged from a side door and replaced his binders. The huge, wooden doors of the Kaa'pet'ale swung open and he faced a mob of angry citizens. He was somewhat surprised how quickly the news of his arrest had spread. 

Despite the circumstances--being led along like a prisoner by men who had followed his command just days ago--he kept his head held high. He didn't flinch as the mob assaulted him, calling him a murderer, a heretic. Some said worse things. 

He didn't--couldn't--meet their eyes. Couldn't they see he had saved their lives? He couldn't blame them, though. They simply followed what they were told by the Ruling Families. And they were told that he has a murderer. 

He did meet the eyes of one person. He found her easily. She stood there, calm in the midst of a storm of fury. But she seemed different. There was a deep sadness and despair in her beautifully glowing eyes. She was his lifemate, the female to whom he had pledged his very existence. The female who would, in a matter of days, bear him a daughter. If his sentencing went well, he would be there to see her. If not... 

For the first time, he lowered his head, hoping that no one saw the tears in his eyes. 

  
*****   


Alana could hardly believe the crowd. It seemed as though the entire city were there. Most astonishing of all, though, were the friends and neighbors who shouted curses along with the rest. The same friends and neighbors who had, not long ago, told her how lucky she was to be the lifemate of such a noble warrior leader. 

Traitors. 

She tightly clutched the pendant that always hung about her neck. He had carved it for her not long after they had met. It was an intricate knotted vine, a traditional symbol of eternal love. 

Her heart nearly shattered when she saw him. They kept him in binders, guarded by the very same men he had once commanded. Yet he kept his head held high, his face an expressionless mask. But she knew him better. 

Their eyes met as he passed. He said nothing but his gaze spoke volumes. He seemed to send her a silent assurance that things would be all right. And she wanted with all her heart to believe it. 

Then, all too soon, he was out of her sight. Still staring after him, she placed a hand to her stomach. Never before had she felt so hopeless. Her lifemate was facing judgment by the Ruling Families and there was nothing she could do to help him. Nothing except to not lose hope. She said yet another silent prayer to the seven gods. There was nothing more she could do. 

  
*****   


"What if he's right?" the thought struck Rann'eal'teristi as he stared out the huge panoramic window of his private quarters. He'd made many difficult decisions at this window. 

The town square, with it's monuments to great warriors and leaders, was visible and in the distance the mountains, haloed by the evening mist just beginning to form. It was a beautiful, inspiring sight. He'd fought for a long time to protect all of this. And always, in the back of his mind, was the nagging fear that one day he would wake up and it would all be gone--conquered, destroyed, or forever altered by one of the Enemies that seemed, always to plague them. 

"What if he's right?" What if Rann'eal'teristi and the others had been wrong all this time? Was the code out of date? Should they let go of their morals and take their vengeance on the Enemies? 

No. He shook away those traitorous ideas. Ethics were never out of date. He would rather his race face extinction than face dominance without morals. He would not allow his race to become barbarians. 

He sighed and turned from the window. He had considered the situation from every possible viewpoint and had concluded that there was only one thing to do. Despite his radical ideas, Mitth'raw'nuruodo was one of their greatest warrior leaders. It was a pity it had to come to this. He sighed again and left to discuss his suggestion for sentencing with the other family speakers. 

  
*****   


He lay awake, studying the ceiling. Again. he'd barely slept since this whole ordeal had begun. Not so much because of the terribly uncomfortable cot or the claustrophobia induced by the tiny cell, but because of the thoughts that kept nagging him. 

What if he'd been wrong? Perhaps there was nothing wrong with the code. He realized that they couldn't let vengeance get in the way of morals. If ever they came to the point of fighting for revenge rather than defense, they would be as bad as the Enemies. 

He shook the thoughts away. He hadn't done this for vengeance. He'd done it to save his people. He had vowed long ago to not let personal matters affect military matters. He sighed. Depending on how his sentencing went, he may no longer have to worry about military matters. Then what would he do? That thought terrified him. He wanted nothing more than to protect his people. What if he could no longer do so? 

He turned over and tried to shake away such thoughts. He would deal with the consequences of his sentencing when they came about. Lying here berating and worrying himself wasn't going to do any good. He closed his eyes and tried, once again, to sleep. 

Next   
  
_I'm a feedback junkie. Like it? Hate it? Let me know!_ celina_marniss864@yahoo.com 


	2. Chapter 2

**The Politics of Exile**

_Chapter 2--_

by Dead Poet

  
Rann'eal'teristi awoke to the loud trilling of mzaris outside and the softer answer of his own pet c'are'pes, a similar species of avians. For just a moment, it seemed as though it would be a beautiful day. Just for a moment, however because, all too soon, the harsh reality of what he would have to do today returned. 

He rose and approached his c'are'pes. They chirped softly and occasionally fluttered their long elegant wings, dropping blue, green, and red feathers in the bottom of their cage. He sighed, slipping a few extra berries into their feeder. 

Today he would uphold the ideals of their ancestors and rid his people of a fiercely loyal and talented warrior leader. As he went through his morning ritual he tried to rid himself of such doubts. It was his job to protect and uphold the ancient laws, not question them. His people had questioned their laws before, had let one person break the rules and that had resulted in a disastrous confrontation dangerously close to civil war. He shuddered, glad that it had been before his time. It was because of his terror at the idea of causing another such dispute that he had decided to have no mercy on Mitth'raw'nuruodo. 

He chose to wear simple, sophisticated robes in burgundy, the same color as the uniforms of the Expansionary Defense, which signified justice and protection. Today he would show his people that such principles were alive and well. 

\\ 

Nael'are'tanari allowed himself a smile as he entered his private transport. Yes, today would be a good day. He was about to, as the entire city watched, dispense justice to a dangerous radical. 

He had worn his most eloquent robes for this special occasion. If he was going to be remembered as a hero and protector of the ancient codes, he wanted to look good in the historical records. 

He gave another slight grin as he exited the transport and entered through the private back door of the kaa'pet'ale . Yes, today would be a good day. 

\\ 

Mattl'ark'eari made her way swiftly and quietly to the meeting chambers. The others, who had arrived early, stood conversing in a corner of the room. She greeted them quietly, adjusting the simple black robes she'd chosen to signify the solemnness of the occasion. 

In the uncomfortable silence that ensued, Mattl'ark'eari found herself wondering how the others felt about this. She'd thought long and hard about this herself and had come to the conclusion that they were simply doing what had to be done. This was her job. There was no room to question it and certainly no room to allow emotions to get in the way of what had to be done. 

They all glanced at each other, each studying the others, trying to reassure themselves or simply get some idea of what the other was thinking. After a moment, Rann'eal'teristi gave a small, solemn nod. It was time. Mattl'ark'eari nodded in return. Just another day's work. 

\\ 

She took her seat in the front row where she could be as close as possible to him. She found the seats filling rapidly, everyone competing for the best seat for what would, no doubt, be the most influential trial any of them would live to see. In a matter of minutes it seemed as though the entire city were there. They all made it a point to glare at her as they found their seats. She felt as though she would be crushed under the weight of their angered stares; and she hadn't even done anything. 

Suddenly, the gargantuan wooden doors swung ponderously open and she saw her beloved, once again, being led along like a common prisoner. They glared at him with the kind of hatred, accusation, and animosity one would have for a brutal murderer. And in their eyes he was. 

\\ 

Mitth'raw'nuruodo had spent most of the previous night dreading this moment, most of the early morning pondering just what his punishment would be, and the few hours before the trial preparing himself. He had cycled through every practical emotion and demeanor and had now come to a point of quiet reserve. He would accept whatever punishment they gave him with all the grace and dignity possible. He would show no weakness. He had done the right thing, and if he let them think that he doubted that, then all of this would be in vain. 

He searched the crowd and finally found his lifemate sitting in the front row. She looked tired and forlorn and as beautiful as he had ever seen her. He gave her a small smile and a silent nod of reassurance and then turned his attention to the fate that lay ahead. He had faced the same crowd before, but this time was far more difficult. Where before there had been jeering, taunting, and accusations there was now nothing but a cold, dead silence. The anger was there still but now it was an icy, bitter anger that was displayed in glares that seemed to bore through to his very soul. If only they could truly see his soul. They would know that he had meant no harm. They would understand his intentions. 

He wanted to run, to hide, to shrink away to nothing--anything to escape the accusations. He had done the right thing. He had saved their lives. They simply did not understand that there were consequences for survival... 

He closed his eyes for a moment, took a breath, and pushed all of the frantic doubts and fears from his mind. When he opened them again he ignored the crowd and simply gazed ahead focusing on the enormous Expansionary Defense emblem displayed on the wall above the podiums where the judges waited. That emblem had once been a source of pride; now it seemed to loom over him, a glaring judgment. 

The proud warrior took his place in the center of the large mosaic floor pattern. It a was a popular design in government buildings. The sun was a source of inspiration and a reminder of their ancestor's struggles. It was an important religious symbol to his people. There was a single day each year when the sun could be seen at its full intensity due to several geographical and meteorological occurrences. That day began with ceremonies at the temples and then moved on to food, dancing and other various methods of celebration. It was at one of these celebrations that his intense interest in art had begun. He had attended an art show with his family and from that day forth had spent as much time as was feasible examining and studying every work in the museum. It was more than a simple interest in painting techniques, however. It was an interest in the emotion and motives behind the artwork. His curiosity had, by now, become an obsession, and he believed, with more study, could essentially become a weapon. 

Suddenly, he was torn from his reminiscence and thrown back into harsh reality by the sounding of the gong that brought the meeting to order. 

"This meeting of the High Council of the Ruling Families is hereby called to order," the guard who had rang the gong called out the official statement. From this point on silence and honorable conduct were demanded of the guests. 

"Syndic Mitth'raw'nuruodo has been accused and convicted of the crimes of murder and treason. We have heard his defense and he now stands before this council to accept his punishment," Rann'eal'teristi began the proceedings with the formal statement. Mitth'raw'nuruodo suppressed a grimace. He hated the way that sounded. It made him seem like a vicious and dishonorable killer. He had done nothing other than protect them. If that was a crime, then he was proud to be a delinquent. 

"Punishment?" The sudden shout came from the back of the room. "You're actually planning to punish him? You should all be thanking him for your lives." The crowd turned to see who was causing this disruption. Mitth'raw'nuruodo didn't have to turn. The voice was one he had heard every day since being appointed to the fleet. It was Daas'ten'talon, his second-in-command. His first thought was gratefulness which quickly turned to despair. He couldn't bear the thought of dragging anyone else into the ordeal. This attack had been his idea, he had planned and implemented it. His subordinates had simply fulfilled their duty--to obey the command of their leading officer. He would accept punishment for his mistakes. He could not allow anyone else to do so. 

"I suggest that you take your seat, Stent," Nael'are'tanari offered icily into the uncomfortable silence, using only his core name, a highly disrespectful gesture at such a formal occasion, "I will not hesitate to have you removed from this meeting. By force if necessary." 

He did take his seat, reluctantly. But it would be far more disgraceful to suffer a removal than to back down from his argument. Mitth'raw'nuruodo breathed a quiet, and hopefully discreet sigh of relief. However, his attempt at subtlety was futile. 

"Oh, don't worry, Commander. We'll deal with your second and the other officers soon enough," Nael'are'tanari assured him, grinning wickedly and enjoying this show of disparagement a bit too much. 

"I trust that we can now continue without disruption," Rann'eal'teristi stated, throwing a disapproving glance at Nael'are'tanari and effectively neutralizing all of the caustic retorts that came to Mitth'raw'nuruodo's mind. The representative and Stent exchanged final resentful glances, then each nodded their agreement. 

"Good. Now then," he went on, "the topic of the Commander's guilt has already been discussed. Had he chosen to follow the codes we would, indeed, be celebrating his victory right now. However, since he chose to recklessly abandon them and attack without provocation, we are condemning him." 

Mitth'raw'nuruodo could no longer stand idly by and allow these accusations and misstatements. "If I am to be condemned for defending my people against Enemies who would have no qualms about extinguishing our entire race, then I will gladly accept any punishment and disgrace you bestow upon me," he stated calmly. 

"You had the chance to defend yourself, Commander," Nael'are'tanari reminded him almost automatically, seeming somewhat subjugated. He suddenly began his tirade again, however, apparently having realized his moment of weakness. 

"Your fate has already been decided. That fate can be made far worse," he hissed, obviously bothered by his momentary wavering. 

Mitth'raw'nuruodo bitterly wished that they would inform him of his fate and get it over with. He was growing impatient with all this talk of his guilt and the horrible punishment to come. 

"In light of your previous crimes, we of the Council have come to the conclusion that your punishment must be more severe than the normal sentence for such an act," Rann'eal'teristi stated, referring to the Commander's decision to aid the human, Kinman Doriana, by terminating Outbound Flight. The Ruling Families hadn't agreed with that command decision either. 

Thinking back to the nearly disastrous meeting after that event, Mitth'raw'nuruodo summarily withdrew his wishes to know his fate--to no avail, of course. 

"Syndic Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Warrior Leader and High Commander of the Chiss Expansionary Defense," Rann'eal'teristi began authoritatively as Mitth'raw'nuruodo took a deep breath and said one last silent prayer, "you are hereby removed from your position, stripped of all rank and sentenced to exile. Removal of rank is effective immediately, exile effective in precisely 72 hours." 

The reaction was silence--a terrible silence in which the words seemed to hang. Even the citizens who had, just a few minutes ago, been out for blood had been silenced by the severity of the verdict. 

Mitth'raw'nuruodo released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, feeling as though he'd just suffered a physical blow. Exile? The word rang through his mind, sounding harsh and cruel. 

"No!" It was his wife who broke the silence and interrupted his reeling. She ran to his defense, protesting with shouted curses punctuated by sobs. The guards had soon detained her, however, allowing Rann'eal'teristi to continue. 

"Guards will be placed at your residence and will accompany you at all times during this period. Once your allotted time has elapsed they will escort you, along with the authorized personal effects, to the local civilian docking bay from which you will depart and be escorted to your place of exile." 

Unable to decide on an acidic retort or another statement of defense, Mitth'raw'nuruodo settled on a simple nod. There were no words that would convince them to change their minds. They would never understand and in three days he would no longer have anyone to convince.   
  
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_I'm a feedback junkie. Like it? Hate it? Let me know!_ celina_marniss864@yahoo.com 


	3. Chapter 3

**The Politics of Exile**

_Chapter 3--_

by Dead Poet

  
As he entered the very same prison where he had been held just days earlier, Mitth'raw'nuruodo came to the conclusion that things certainly looked a bit better from the other side of the cell. Of course, considering the circumstances, his position was not much of a comfort. 

The ever-present guards accompanied him to the cell where Daas'ten'talon, once--and hopefully still--his one true friend, was being held. They marched along the silent hallway, the sound of their boots on the cold, metallic floor echoing loudly in time with his nervously pounding heart. 

They passed by the solid, locked doors behind which murderers, thieves, and various other deviants--and perhaps even other innocents like himself--went about driving themselves mad. The thought sent a chill down his spine and he could imagine his guards trying to suppress a smirk as they realized the effect this place had on him. Let them laugh. They couldn't possibly comprehend what it was like to fall victim to their system. Having spent a period of time detained in one of those cells, he now intimately understood the process. There was no more efficient way to neutralize a criminal than to drive them insane. One was locked in a cell, which unlike the more public areas used for the more minor offenders, were devoid of windows or anything at all other than an uncomfortable cot. There was either no light at all or light of an excruciating intensity. And there was no way to entertain oneself other than thoughts which quickly turned bleak and hopeless. And on top of all of this some of the more violent offenders were kept under the influence of sedatives and various other drugs. A few days would leave one severely shaken. A long enough period of time with treatment of this sort would leave one a pitiful, misanthropic introvert too terrified and delusional to cause anyone any harm. 

He had quickly come to loathe this place and everything it stood for. It made him ill to think that some faction of his people had created such a place and that others had been so willing to ignore and allow its presence simply because it was done in the name of "science." 

He took a deep breath as they stopped at one of the anonymous doors, wondering grimly what condition he would find his confidant in. As the guards entered the lock code, he took a moment to straighten his tunic, still not accustomed to the civilian clothing. He much preferred the uniform he no longer had the privilege of wearing. 

The door slid open with a soft hiss and the captive looked up, startled by the sudden presence of light, from where he sat huddled in a corner. Upon realizing who his visitor was, Daas'ten'talon got to his feet and gave a somewhat shaky salute. Mitth'raw'nuruodo winced slightly at the military gesture. 

"There's no need to salute a civilian, Commander," he said softly. 

"Forgive me for being so obstinate, sir, but I refuse to consider you a civilian. You may no longer technically be my commanding officer, but I've never cared much for technicalities. And I'm quite sure the rest of your subordinates feel the same." Daas'ten'talon replied, throwing a glance at the guards that still stood in the doorway, though they had respectfully turned their backs. He tried to ignore the doubts that were creeping into his thoughts. If they decided to report this little show of resistance... 

But they didn't seem to be paying much attention. 

"How are you being treated?" Mitth'raw'nuruodo asked quietly, taking a seat on the edge of the cot and motioning for his second--no, he was simply a friend now--to do the same. 

"As well as can be expected, I suppose," he replied, amazingly, with a smile. "I haven't been beaten or tortured, and every once in a while they even feed me." He laughed bitterly. 

But the haunted look in his commander's eyes told him his attempt at levity had failed. There was a long, uncomfortable silence, the only sound the constant hum of the complex's power generators. 

Mitth'raw'nuruodo took a deep breath, shaking away the dreadful memories of his own captivity. Daas'ten'talon may not have been tortured--yet--but he had not been so fortunate. He attempted to suppress the shudder these memories triggered. And now, on top of everything else he had to deal with the fact that he was responsible for putting his second-in-command, his friend and confidant, through a similar ordeal. And what of the other thousands of officers, fighter pilots, and various other personnel aboard his ship and the others in the fleet? They had all been under his command, had trusted him to make the correct command decisions. And he had never before given them reason to mistrust him. What if he had proven them wrong? 

"I've come to apologize," he said quietly, the words sounding terribly inadequate. 

For a moment Daas'ten'talon didn't answer. He glanced at his commander--his comrade--who studied the floor, his face the emotionless mask he had long ago come to associate with, not a lack of emotion, but an overwhelming quantity of it. Just beneath that austere surface was a raging tempest of emotion held back only by will and necessity. However, he didn't need an expression to know the emotions his commander fought so hard to suppress. 

"I'm afraid I cannot accept your apology, sir," Daas'ten'talon finally replied. For just a moment he thought he may have seen a hint of despair cross the others face. He held up a hand to stop any reply. 

"I cannot accept your apology because it is unnecessary. A commander need never apologize for a decision made under such circumstances," he explained. 

Mitth'raw'nuruodo, having finally forced himself to meet the other's eyes, looked toward the floor again. "Even when that decision jeopardizes the careers of those under his command?" he questioned. 

"Sir, had any of us doubted your decision, we were perfectly free to say so. And if any of the officers aboard that ship or any of the others in the fleet had seen fault in your command, I'm certain they would have. You met with no opposition that day, Sir, were faced with no doubts, because you were right," Daas'ten'talon answered. He had been waiting to say this to his commander, had longed to say it during his trial and sentencing; however, had he done so he would now, most likely, be facing a much worse fate. 

But his superior was apparently not yet ready to belay all of his self-doubt. "But I acted outside the bounds of war. I went against codes that have been in place for centuries. " The very same moral ideals that had been so important to his father; and had been his father's undoing. 

"Yes, but centuries ago we weren't attacked every other day by intolerant religious fanatics, slavers, and power-hungry races looking to conquer every world that they could feasibly inhabit. And when we were attacked it wasn't with biological weapons and poisonous gases. Extinction was not an imminent threat. Do you really think our ancestors had to worry about the possibility of seeing our entire race wiped out within their own lifetime by invasions, alien inflicted diseases, and genocide? Those codes would never have been put in place if they had foreseen this. At that time, we were powerful. We could afford to have ideals." Daas'ten'talon found himself suddenly fighting back tears. What would their antecedents think if they could see how far they had fallen? 

Mitth'raw'nuruodo did not reply. There was no reply to be given. It was the very same argument he had used time and again to convince his subordinates and himself. He'd never really thought anyone had listened. 

Before he could formulate any sort of reply, Daas'ten'talon spoke again. "If you don't mind my asking, Sir...what now?" he asked, with a mischievous grin. It was the very same question he had always had a habit of posing after particularly harrowing experiences. 

Mitth'raw'nuruodo smiled at the private joke and replied, "Well, I suppose I'll pay off all of my debts, take care of any unfinished business...Perhaps I should purchase a tent..." The two of them chuckled, then Mitth'raw'nuruodo grew suddenly serious. "Then, I suppose I'll pack my belongings, say goodbye to Alana and the daughter I'll never meet, and then I'll do my best to survive and find a way to escape whatever godsforsaken rock they drop me on." 

Daas'ten'talon looked up at his commander who was, once again, intently studying the floor. He wished with all his heart that he could come up with something to say--anything that would be even remotely comforting, but nothing he could think of seemed adequate. 

And before he had the opportunity to say anything, Mitth'raw'nuruodo spoke again, this time even more solemn. "I may no longer technically be your commander, but I have one last order to issue before I relinquish the title entirely." He took a deep breath. "Watch over Alana and my daughter. Make certain they're taken care of." 

In all of the years Daas'ten'talon had served under him, he had never heard anything but calm and confidence in his commander's voice, nor had his expression ever shown anything different. Now however, both seemed to have betrayed him, allowing his voice to waver and his eyes to overflow with tears. 

"I will, Sir." Daas'ten'talon quietly acknowledged the order, placing a comforting hand on the other's shoulder, "I shall watch over them as if they were my own." 

It was then that the guards interrupted to inform them that their time was up. Mitth'raw'nuruodo stood and turned for one more look at his best friend and most loyal officer. "Thank you," he said. 

"No, sir. Thank you."   
  
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_I'm a feedback junkie. Like it? Hate it? Let me know!_ celina_marniss864@yahoo.com 


	4. Chapter 4

**The Politics of Exile**

_Chapter 4--_

by Dead Poet

  
_Chaos. That was the only word to describe what took place before him as the Expansionary Defense's carefully planned strategy fell apart. Chaos--gods he hated that word. He watched, horrified as the army of alien warriors laid waste to the city square. They used their strange weapons to destroy or vandalize the sculptures that stood about the square, all the while shrieking curses to his people for having created works that defied the "true" gods and sought to create others. _

It wasn't long before they began destroying lives as well. In their eyes, these beings who had defied them--who still refused the "true" gods after all of the demonstrations of their power that they had been offered--must die. Those who refused the "truth" and cleaved to ancient lies were not worthy of life. 

"Listen, I've got to go help them. I've got to do whatever I can. You two stay put," his father said. "And Mitth'raw'nuruodo, watch over your sister." 

He nodded, "I will." He watched as his father placed his charric in its holster and grabbed a small dagger from a drawer. He stood there looking after him long after his father had gone, a vague sense of worry nagging at the back of his mind. He refused to allow the nebulous question to form fully. He was far too afraid of the answer he would give and he could not allow himself to break down. He had to be strong for Sheran. 

"Is Father going to be all right?" He heard her small, timid voice asking the very same question that he had just refused from the corner in which she huddled, flinching at every sound. 

"I don't know," he said, refusing to lie to her. "I think he will be." He took his place of vigilance at the window once again. "I'm going to watch him the whole time and I'll tell you everything that happens." 

He did just that for what seemed like hours, trying not to flinch himself every time he saw someone fall. He watched his father, charric in one hand, blasting those at a distance and defending himself from the rest with the dagger. He fought gallantly, dauntlessly like a vindictive god wreaking his vengeance on those who had been so impudent as to incur his wraith. Soldier after hated soldier fell to his unyielding power. And all around the once beautiful square countless others did the same. And all about the now ravaged square, countless intrepid warriors perished in the names of their people, their families, and their freedom. 

And suddenly, he noticed the absence of the occasional whimper from Sheran. She had been entirely quiet for quite some time. He looked back over to her corner, a vague sense of dread twisting his stomach. He found the corner empty. She had slipped through the door that had been left open and he hadn't even noticed, as enthralled as he'd been in watching the battle. Panic seized his heart and every other muscle in his body, momentarily paralyzing him. When he was finally able to free himself from the clutches of this dismay, he ran and seized the scimitar that hung above the altar in the hall. Then he rushed out the door and into the very heart of the pandemonium that now reigned supreme in the once peaceful square. After a few disquieting moments, he spotted her in the very center of the fray, dodging weapons and wincing as she stepped over and around fallen bodies. Their father fought on, having not yet noticed the tiny child making her way through the riot. 

Mitth'raw'nuruodo ran after her, trying to watch in every direction at once, knowing that should he let his guard down for a split second it may very well be the end of his existence. He tried to keep Sheran in his sights as he cut a path through the legions of Enemies that seemed to multiply with every passing minute. He shouted her name but to no avail. He was not close enough to be heard above the din of clashing weapons and crashing structures. 

"Daddy!" he heard her scream. He sliced his way past the last of the aliens in his way just in time to see her grab her father about the waist. The battle beginning to diminish, he obviously thought it safe enough to kneel for a moment and comfort the terrified child. He was quite mistaken. 

Mitth'raw'nuruodo continued running, the distance seeming to grow instead of diminish. As he watched, one of the fallen Enemies, bloody and weak, managed to raise himself to a somewhat upright position and... 

"NO!" he shrieked, having suddenly realized precisely what it was that this once fallen soldier intended to do. His shouting was futile, however. He was not heard above the rest of the pained and angry screaming of the battle. He looked on, his heart frozen like a block of ice, his legs feeling heavy and excruciatingly slow as he tried to reach them, hoping with all of his heart that he could do something to stop the abominable creature. 

He was finally coming nearer when the detestable being raised his sharp-edged staff high, shouted something unintelligible, and plunged the weapon downward, impaling the last remaining members of his family in a single strike. 

"NO!" he shrieked again, sobbing this time. He closed the distance between them, and for the moment, he tried to ignore the bodies. He turned his attention first to the vile warrior who had fallen once again and lay there dying with a smile on his wretched countenance. 

Mitth'raw'nuruodo stood over him, hate and loathing mixing with pain and anguish to create a violent and lethal tempest. "Good," he spat. "You're not dead yet." 

He knew that saying anything was most likely futile. The warrior probably did not speak their language, but words did not always have to be understood to convey their meaning. 

"This," he shouted, plunging the the scimitar viciously downward, "is for my family. This--" another stab, "is for my people. This--" another violent plunge, "is for the all lives you have taken. And this--" a plunge through the heart, "is for my honor." He was still stabbing long after the wretched creature was dead, tears streaming, shouting curses to the creature and his entire horrid race. 

"May your body burn in the flames of the destruction you have sewn here, and may your soul be consumed by Kh'aos," he bit out a final curse, the worst he could imagine, before turning to the bodies of his family. He sank to his knees beside them, no longer making any attempt whatsoever to hold back his tears. 

"Forgive me," he sobbed, "I failed you." 

"Yes," a strange voice spoke from behind him. "And now you will die with them." 

It was quite surprising, he thought as he was roughly dragged to his feet with the Enemy's sharp-edged staff held at his throat, that one of them spoke their language so well. 

"This is for **my** people, for the lives **you** have taken, and for **my** honor," the Enemy whispered before slowly drawing the the sharp edge across his throat. Mitth'raw'nuruodo bit his tongue hard, refusing to scream. 

"You have no honor," he was barely able to utter these last words. 

The Enemy threw him to the ground amongst the other bodies and left him to die. His last thoughts were of blood--that of his Enemies, his family, and now his own. He lay covered in it as it drained away from his body, taking what life remained with it. 

He was suddenly seized by an overwhelming sense of panic. If only he could scream, someone may find him and save him from the death that crept closer with each passing moment...But he could no longer breathe... 

  
*****   


He awoke in a cold sweat, stifling a scream. He sat there clutching the sheets, heart pounding for the few disorienting moments it took for the images of destruction and death to fade away to the more peaceful reality of early morning. 

Alana gazed quietly at her lifemate who stood up and stepped over to stare out the window. He looked rather troubled--no surprise considering the manner in which he had awakened. It was not difficult to guess the subject that had haunted his dreams. It was always the same. He stared intently, seeing not the stunning view of the city, but specters of the past. He touched his throat, idly fingering the scar there. She stood and stepped over to him. 

"What is wrong?" she asked quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

"Nothing," he said, his hand dropping suddenly to his side as he tried to affect a carefree smile. "I'm just thinking." 

"About what?" she questioned. He said nothing for a moment, trying to decide whether to actually tell her this time or simply fabricate another lie and shrug it off as he usually did. This wasn't something he really wanted to talk about... 

She spoke again before he had the opportunity to decide. "Let me guess," she said. "You're thinking about your father and Sheran and how you failed them. You're thinking about what your father would think of this whole ordeal. And you're wishing you had just died with them." 

"Stop being so perceptive," he replied so softly she could barely hear him. "It's frightening." 

She smiled slightly, "Well, if you would tell me about your troubles instead of brooding, I wouldn't have to rely so much on my perceptions." 

"It's not that simple," he sighed. 

She took his hands and looked up into his deep red eyes. "I know," she whispered. "But you need to talk to someone." And soon you won't have anyone to talk to even if you want to. 

He stepped back to sit on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. She followed, putting an arm around his shoulders. 

"He didn't have to die," he murmured. "None of them did. I've studied the historical records. There was plenty of evidence that they would be attacking. The CED knew they were going to attack, but thanks to the Code they had no choice but to sit and wait for it to happen and try to defend us when it did. They could have destroyed them before the Enemies even had a chance to attack but that wouldn't have been moral. What was moral about allowing them to attack and kill hundreds of civilians and warriors?" He studied the floor, eyes filled with bitter tears. "And my father was one of the most dedicated supporters of the Code. He always followed it to the letter, and it wound up getting him killed." 

Alana remained silent, unsure of what she should say. She couldn't think of anything that would be the least bit comforting. But he continued before she could come up with anything. 

"But the Ruling Families and the Warriors' Code can't be blamed entirely. I suppose I am also at fault. They allowed the attack to happen, but it was my responsibility to take care of Sheran. I failed. And so, yes, sometimes I do wish that I could have just died with them. But now I thank the gods I did not. For if I had, my life would have been futile, for I would never have met you." 

He looked up, gazing into her eyes, now filled with tears of their own. 

"How am I ever going to survive without you?" she whispered as they embraced, each thinking their own bleak answer to the question--they couldn't.   
  
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_I'm a feedback junkie. Like it? Hate it? Let me know!_ celina_marniss864@yahoo.com 


	5. Chapter 5

**The Politics of Exile**

_Chapter 5--_

by Dead Poet

  
Left alone with his thoughts, Mitth'raw'nuruodo felt another sudden twinge of guilt at having left Alana alone once again. However, she had insisted that she would be fine, arguing that this was something he needed to do alone, or at least as alone as one could get under full guard. A brisk morning breeze stirred the dark red leaves in the trees that formed a sort of tunnel around the pathway. He pulled his long cloak tighter, shivering slightly either because of the chill in the air or the sudden chill in his heart as he realized just how lonely this pathway seemed. Besides the usual two guards who kept a respectful distance behind him, there was not another soul about; he had left the city quite a distance behind and there would almost certainly be no one to greet him at his destination. 

It wasn't long before the tunnel of foliage abruptly ended in a large stone arch. Beyond the arch, the path, which was now lined with much lighter colored flowering plants, continued up to the entrance of the sepulcher. He stood within the archway for a moment, thinking about how symbolic the whole thing was--the dark pathway symbolizing the dark and troubled journey of life, the stone archway symbolizing the end of life, and the far lighter setting at the end symbolizing the entrance to Eu'top'ia. 

He then turned his attention to the sepulcher which lay ahead. It was quite a breathtaking construction; unlike the structures of the city, it was composed of a sort of very light colored stone. An enormous set of stairs led up to a large, open entrance under the cover of a large veranda supported by elaborately carved stone pillars. Statues of the god and goddess stood on each side of the entrance as if guarding those who rested within. The building itself was a large square structure with an elevated, spherical roof. 

He began the somewhat daunting climb up the immense expanse of stairs, thinking back to the other times he had been here. They numbered all too many--too many of his family had passed due, either directly or indirectly, to this ongoing battle for survival. They were all different Enemies, different circumstances, but much the same story. And how many times had he attended the sepulchral temples of other family groups for the ceremonies of friends? And yet he had only come for the wakes; he rarely came to the temple at any other time. It was not a place he enjoyed, for it bore too many memories--too many thoughts of his own shortcomings. 

His steps faltered for a moment as another thought occurred to him--he had failed them all again by refusing to face those failures. He trudged on his way, his steps seeming heavier and heavier as his heart sank more and more, weighed down by feelings of guilt and failure. 

He arrived at the apex of the staircase and knelt before the entrance and whispered the necessary prayer to the guardians of the temple. Leaving the guards posted at the door, he stood and made his way into the temple, following the path to his family's area of the sepulcher. The corridors through which he walked were lined with hundreds of small alcoves. Within each of these lay the sarcophagi of various members of various families, all belonging to the 'Nuruodo sect. He soon arrived at the his family's alcove. The doorway was marked with the Mit' family name and emblem--the image of the ta'pok dragon, symbolic of his family of warriors. He stood in the entry for a moment, admiring the gentle glow cast by the p'ela'en t'ans--small, glass globes which held candles. There was one nestled into the small niche above each sarcophagus. The objects were traditionally crafted by someone close to the deceased and were kept eternally lit by a priest or priestess, symbolizing eternal life and acting as the spirits' guide to Eu'top'ia. 

For an instant he was unable to move any closer, the heaviness of his heart seeming to anchor him to that spot. He had not visited this place since the day his father and sister had been entombed. Taking a deep breath and attempting to banish the memories that assailed him, he stepped into the room. Sarcophagi lined the walls and in the center of the room stood a large pillar around which a representation of his family's lineage was carved. He stood for a moment, admiring the somber beauty of the room. Each of the sarcophagi was made of a stone similar to that from which the temple itself was built and decorated with carvings of vines, ta'pok dragons, and various personalized decorations. The vines, like the p'ela'en t'ans, were a common symbol of eternity. 

He finally brought himself to step to the back of the room where the sarcophagi of his parents and sister lay. He stood before his mother's sarcophagus, a finger idly tracing the beautifully carved floral pattern. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the logical part of his mind laughing hysterically at his act--he was talking to a chunk of stone and a decaying body--but his spiritual side overcame logic. 

"I'm sorry I didn't come here more often, I'm sorry you weren't here to see me fight for you and our people, but I am grateful that you aren't here now to see how far I've fallen." 

He took a small object from the pocket of his cloak. It was a small figurine he had carved for her when he was a child. He had planned to give it to her, but that wretched, Enemy-inflicted disease had taken her before he had the chance. He had kept it since then but had decided to give it to her now because he would never have another opportunity. He placed the figure in the alcove next to her p'ela'en t'an. 

"I suppose it's better for things to be delayed rather than terminated entirely," he said quietly, quoting an old axiom. 

The next sarcophagus was his sister's. It was basically the same as the others, but it was smaller since she had been only a young child at the time of her death. 

"Sheran," he whispered. "I hope you have forgiven me." He paused to wipe away a tear that slid, uninhibited, down his cheek. "I painted this for you," he continued, pulling a small piece of framed parchment from a pocket. "I know you always liked mzaris. I remember when we used to go into the square and feed them seed pods from the trees in our yard. I have always said that when I have a child I will take them to the square to feed the mzaris. I wonder what sort of avians will inhabit the world they're sending me to. I wonder if Alana will take my daughter to the square. More than anything, however, I wish that you were here. You always knew how make me feel better. Perhaps tomorrow I will go to the square for you." 

He set the picture of the colorful avian in the alcove next to her p'ela'en t'an and stood still for several moments, trying to bring himself to move on to the final member of his family--his father. 

He had failed them all in some way--his mother by not upholding what she had taught him, his sister by not protecting her as he had vowed to, but his failure to his father had been his worst. His father had told him to take care of Sheran before he went to fight the Enemies; not only had he failed to do that, but he had now disobeyed the codes that his father had followed so staunchly. He had always liked to think that his service would have made his father proud, but now...Now what would he think? 

"I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I always tried my hardest to do what was right and what would have made you proud. But more than anything I have tried to do whatever it took to keep my people safe. I suppose I went too far. It seemed logical at the time, and I was so sure." 

He pulled one last small object from his pocket. "I feel that I should leave these with you. I won't be needing them any more, and were it not for you and the example you set for me I would never have earned them," he said through tears that now fell freely. He set his ranking bars at the head of the sarcophagus above the tip of the scimitar that he had placed there the day that his father had been entombed. 

"I tried so hard to follow that example," the remainder of his words were choked off by tears he could no longer hold back. He fell to his knees, sobbing. Never before had he shown his feelings so freely, even at the wakes of his family members and friends. His position had always required him to control his feelings, and he had carried this habit over to his personal life. Now, however, he expressed no control. 

As his sobs quieted, he noticed the sound of footsteps that stopped in the doorway. He took a moment to compose himself and turned to look at the visitor. It was a young lady--she appeared to be barely more than a child--wearing a simple white gown and carrying a white candle. She was a temple student tending to the p'ela'en t'ans. She looked down at him with a concerned gaze. 

"I am sorry if I have intruded," she said meekly. "Or perhaps I should not apologize. Perhaps it is the will of the gods that I have found you." 

He looked away from her, up at the softly glowing lights. Will of the gods, indeed. He had never been very religious. Perhaps because his duties had made it rather difficult or perhaps because it seemed that he had always been cheated by the gods. These merciful gods--givers and creators--had only taken all that he loved away from him and created only pain for him. But when he looked up into her big, innocent eyes he could not bring himself to say these things. 

"Perhaps," he said quietly instead. 

She stepped into the room, sat her candle down, and sat on her knees beside him. She looked into his eyes, frowning slightly. "You have not been here before have you?" asked quietly. 

He looked away from her innocent, concerned gaze again. "Not since the day my father was entombed," he confided. 

"May I ask why?" she questioned, hoping she wasn't prying. 

For some reason, he had no reservations about telling her the truth. "I was...afraid," he told her. "I didn't want to face my feelings." 

It was her turn to look away. "Is this all of your family?" she asked, sounding somewhat sad. 

"All of my immediate family, yes," he answered. "But I still have my lifemate. And a daughter soon." 

She smiled at this. "You see! Life is a cycle. Your first family has passed on, but now you have begun a new one." 

Were circumstances different, he would have found that thought rather comforting; under his current circumstances it just seemed to mock him. Certainly he had begun a new family, but now he would be the one leaving. 

Obviously sensing that this had not comforted him, she went on with her questioning, looking somewhat disappointed. "Why did you decide to come now?" she asked. 

He hesitated for a moment, wondering if she had heard about the trial. "I have one more day here before I will be forced to leave my people, my new family, and my old life forever," he said quietly. 

She looked down at the floor, frowning. "I have heard about you," she stated simply. 

"I'm not surprised. I'm certain you've also heard that I am insane, violent, that the battle was nothing more than an ambush and massacre. What would your gods think of me now?" he said this perhaps a bit too viciously, for the girl seemed a bit taken aback. 

"Yes, I have heard those things," she admitted. "However, having met you, I do not believe them. And as for the gods, they would forgive you. As would those you came here to visit," she said, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

"How could they? I stood by and watched my mother die of an Enemy-inflicted disease, I let my sister wander off into the middle of a battlefield and get both herself and my ever-faithful, law-abiding father killed," he said, rising to his feet and pacing in front of the sarcophagi. 

She rose as well and met him head-on, undaunted by his brooding manner. "And yet they still forgive you because you are their son, her brother. They loved you unconditionally when they were upon this world and they will continue to do so for all eternity," she spoke softly, looking up at him. "The gods will do so as well. If you can find a way to forgive yourself, they will forgive you. We have all made mistakes--all of us. I must ask daily for the gods' forgiveness, for I am flawed, as are all of the others who abide here. None of us can be perfect--not even the gods. They created all in this universe; how could the Enemies have been anything other than a mistake?" 

He stood with his back to her now, intently studying the pendant he wore which his lifemate had given him. If he closed his eyes and let his mind wander from the usual tight control under which he kept his thoughts, he could almost truly believe what the girl said--almost. 

She stood at a respectful distance as he tossed this idea about between his logical mind and his imaginative one. 

"What about my daughter?" he asked, the words nearly catching in his throat. "Do you think she'll be able to forgive me?" 

He turned back to face her, and saw what may have been doubt flicker for the first time across her face. 

"I am certain she will," she replied, once again sure of herself and her gods. "Unlike the rest of the populace, your lifemate will tell her the truth." 

For a long time he stood, silently gazing at the sarcophagi, at the images engraved upon them, and at the beautifully glowing light of the p'ela'en t'ans. After a while he slowly turned back to her, his eyes now dry and holding a new peace and resolve. 

"If I could ask a favor of you..." he began sounding a bit uncertain. 

"Of course," she encouraged him brightly. 

"Please, pray to your gods for me." he requested quietly, his logical side, once again, laughing at his sudden belief. 

The girl appeared to be on the verge of tears herself, and he caught himself wondering, for a moment, if somehow she could here the laughter. "I will. And so will all of the others," she replied happily. So she had not heard. "And we will pray for your lifemate and your daughter, as well." 

He took a step forward and took both of her hands, looking down into her big, child-like eyes. "Thank you," he whispered. 

"You're welcome," she whispered in return, "and Peace be with you!" The latter she called out as he left. Once he was out the door she looked down at the small object he had placed in her hand--a pendant carved with the image of his family crest, which was also engraved above the door of the chamber in which they had just stood. 

The girl dashed to the main door of the temple. She stood on the topmost step and watched as he made his way back down the dark, narrow path, heading for the light at the end of the tunnel, flanked by his ever-present guardians. "Thank you." 

  
*****   


Alana had done her best to keep herself busy throughout the day with various household chores--cleaning, reorganizing, anything at all to keep her mind busy. Now, however, having exhausted her supply of busy-work, a single, horrible thought had sneaked through between thoughts of mending her dress and cleaning the food-prep unit: was this what her life would be like when he left? 

This single thought had put an end to her productivity and now she sat on their bed surrounded by still boxes full of still images and various items such as letters they had sent one another and had received from various family members. She was surrounded by mementos from their past. It seemed strange that the past was so very visible--images and writings made it easy to view the past--however, no matter how hard she tried, she could see no vision of the future. 

Finally, having grown weary of perusing the boxes in an orderly manner, searching for the single image she wished to see, she had dumped out all of the boxes. Now she was surrounded by a sort of collage. It didn't take her long to find the image she had wanted--it practically fell into her lap as she emptied the last box. She stared down at the image of her lifemate and herself on the day of their Union. They had been so happy on that day; when they had found out that they would be bringing a child into the world, they had been even more so. It had seemed as though their lives could not get any better. Now it seemed as if circumstances could not possibly get worse. She looked around at the other images--her parents, other members of their families, various images of various events, and there was a picture of his family. 

She picked up the image, her heart aching as she realized that he must have simply buried it in the box because it hurt him too much to see them. Tears filled her eyes as another question struck her: would it hurt him too much to think about her when he was gone? Or would it hurt more to be unable to see her? She sat for a moment pondering, and then, having come to a decision, stood and stepped over to the desk that stood in the corner of the room. Rummaging through the drawers she finally found the image recorder she had been searching for. 

She went back to the bed and began gathering images that she knew were important to him. The others she put back in the boxes and replaced the boxes on the shelf from which she had retrieved them. She also kept out several important letters. Suddenly, she heard the main door open--he was home. She quickly placed all of the items in a drawer which she knew he never used and went to greet him. 

She practically ran to him and was in his arms before he had even closed the door. She wanted to confess to him that she had hardly been able to endure a single day away from him and that she did not believe that she would be able to survive alone. She refrained from doing so, however, for she knew that he felt the same way and did not want to cause him any more pain than he was already feeling. 

He smiled slightly, agreeing with her appraisal of the inquiry, "Oddly enough, I found it quite enlightening." 

She released herself from his grasp long enough to shut the door but quickly returned to his side, smiling. 

"You? Enlightened?" she asked incredulously. 

He smiled slightly in return, but the small bit of levity quickly vanished. "Yes, actually. I met a temple student who...made me feel much better about my decisions. Apparently something was missing from my own appraisals of them." 

Her smile was gone now too, replaced by an expression of concern and curiosity. "And what was that?" she asked quietly. 

He looked down into her crimson eyes, "Forgiveness." 

She drew him closer to her, embracing him gently and offering a sort of physical comfort that easily matched the peace of mind that he now had. They stood for some time, relishing in the comfort of each other's arms and soon in the pleasantness of one another's lips.   
  
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_I'm a feedback junkie. Like it? Hate it? Let me know!_ celina_marniss864@yahoo.com 


	6. Chapter 6

**The Politics of Exile**

_Chapter 6--_

by Dead Poet

  
Alana awoke with a start, a vague sense of panic seizing her. She was alone. She jumped from the bed and practically ran for the bedroom door. Where was he? Was he gone? Had their evening together been only a dream? 

She finally found him in his library, intently studying a shelf holding various books, papers, and a few small sculptures and frames holding still images. He turned at her entrance, looking somewhat startled. "Oh," he said, looking a bit regretful. "I woke you. I am sorry." 

She held up a hand to stop his apology. "No, you didn't wake me. And even if you had, I wouldn't complain." 

He smiled somewhat sadly at the comment and turned back to his shelf. 

"What are you doing, anyway?" she asked. 

He turned back to her with a wry grin. "Packing," he said, taking a small, abstract sculpture from the shelf and placing it in the large trunk in the corner of the room that had been inspected and authorized by his guards. 

She was quiet, so he continued to explain. "It had to be done eventually, and I couldn't sleep." He sighed and flopped down in the chair behind his desk. "They gave me three days. Do they have any idea what it is like to try to pack for the rest of your life? The entire three days could be spent deliberating about what to fill your extra space with--extra food and clothing or another image of your family." 

With a gesture of disgust, he tossed the list of authorized items on the desk and, sighing, rested his head in his hands. "I will be living out of that box, quite possibly, for the rest of my life. All I will have to sustain me will be what I decide to take." 

Frowning, Alana came around to sit on the edge of the desk facing him. She gently took his hands and, looking into his crimson eyes, spoke softly. "You will have far more at your disposal than what you can put in that box. You have your intelligence, your ingenuity, your instincts. And most of all, you have determination. You're not going to sit back and let yourself rot out there--you will fight each and every day, and someday you'll escape." He sighed and looked away, ashamed at having lapsed and allowed himself to show his despair. It was his duty to be strong, not Alana's. 

She gently caressed his cheek, drawing his gaze back to hers. "And when you do escape," she said, practically whispering, "I will be here waiting for you." She leaned forward and kissed him softly. 

  
*****   


"Thank the gods he's not a morning person," Alana thought to herself as she quietly removed the recorder and images from her drawer. Her lifemate still slept soundly and more peacefully than usual, and she wanted to take advantage of this time. She quietly gathered the items and tiptoed out the door, easing it closed behind her. 

\\ 

He awoke slowly, reluctantly, not wanting to let go of the images of happiness that had blessed his dreams. He didn't want to face the reality that this was his final day amongst his people--amongst people of any kind. He quickly shook that thought away; he was not going to let bleak thoughts ruin his final day. He rose and stepped to the window looking out at the stunning view of the city square. The sun shone brighter than usual as it had in his dream, however the young girl--his daughter?--from the vision was nowhere to be found. He found himself wondering, for the hundredth time, what she would be like. Would she remind him of his sister as the chimera had? Would she have her mother's eyes? Would she be able to forgive her father? He drove away that nagging thought as the words of the temple student came back to him--Alana would make sure that she knew the truth. What would she become--an artist, a scientist, or perhaps a writer like her mother...? 

\\ 

Alana gathered the images and made a few final adjustments. She glanced at the chronometer on his desk--he would probably be waking soon. She placed the neat pile of images and the tiny recorder in the deep pocket of her skirt and stepped out of the study, once again easing the door closed. If he wasn't awake already, she didn't want to wake him. 

\\ 

Thrawn stepped quietly from the room, looking down the short hallway. Where was Alana? Glancing surreptitiously around the corner, he spotted her in the sitting room, curled up on the sofa, writing something on a sheet of parchment. Good, she was occupied. He quietly stepped into the door on the right, into his study. He had to stand on a block to reach the enormous book which rested atop the shelves. It was an ancient collection of maps that had been passed on and added to for generations. It included detailed maps of their own world, constellations, their seven moons, and of distant worlds that members of his own family had explored. Years ago, some brave souls had begun colonies on some of these worlds in an attempt to escape their Enemies--they were followed. He shuddered; throughout his life the dark fear of another massive attack had loomed in the back of his mind. When he enlisted in the Expansionary Defense that fear had been calmed by the fact that he would, at least, be able to defend his people. Now, he would no longer have that honor. 

He shook away these dismal thoughts and set his mind to the task at hand. He turned the book to the map of the fifth moon, Ey'lla, he removed the sheets of heavy parchment and canvas that were sandwiched between that page and the previous page of the fourth moon, Da'elin. He carefully removed the top layers of parchment to reveal the painted canvas and it's border of perfectly pressed flowers. Stepping up on the block again, he retrieved the framing materials he had gathered. He carefully slid the piece of wood beneath the canvas and placed the glass on top. He then slid this sandwich of materials into the notches of the wooden frame pieces themselves. Once it was completed and he had made certain that it was secure, he wrapped it in a piece of dyed cloth, tied it with a large ribbon, and placed it on his desk. He would give it to Alana tonight. 

\\ 

Alana carefully folded the sheet of parchment and placed it, along with the recorder, in an elegant, cream colored envelope. She stood, placed the envelope in her pocket, replaced the stylus in the holder on her desk, and went to the galley to prepare some kl'uut'h tea for their breakfast. She was retrieving two chalices from a compartment above the food preparation console when she was startled by the sudden presence of a pair of hands on her shoulders. She jumped and nearly dropped one of the chalices, but smiled when she turned to face the owner of those hands. 

"You've gotten a bit too good at sneaking up on people," she remarked with a sly grin. 

"It's an ability that comes in handy," he countered with a sly grin of his own. 

She poured the two chalices full of the hot, sweet tea and handed one to him. "So, what's on the agenda for today?" she questioned. 

He glanced out the skylight above them at the pale, blue-gray sky. "Today, I don't care what I do, as long as I do it with you." 

She smiled, and took a sip of her tea. "In that case, we could pay a visit to the museum, all our favorite places--wherever our hearts take us." 

"It sounds perfect," he stated somewhat wistfully, brushing a strand of hair away from her face and smiling a bit sadly. 

  
*****   


Sounding perfect and actually being perfect are two entirely different things, as the couple soon learned. Thankfully Thrawn had decided to wear the long cloak he had worn on his trip to the temple; the cowl came in handy. At the first derogatory shouts and disrespectful gestures, they had almost called off the entire excursion. But it was his final day on this world, and he was not about to let anonymous animosity keep him from enjoying it. He had spent enough time away from his home performing his duties as a Warrior Leader of the Expansionary Defense and it had been years since he had simply enjoyed the city. Today was his last opportunity to do so. Besides, the guards that followed them at a discreet distance would not allow any harm to befall them. 

And so he did his best to hide himself beneath the cowl of his cloak and avoid the more crowded areas. Fortunately, at this time of day, the Kra'sha'mael Art Museum was occupied mostly by students and not very many of them. 

Thrawn and Alana strolled aimlessly about, in whatever direction they felt led, stopping frequently to gaze at and discuss a particular painting or sculpture. They soon came to a rather large, abstract sculpture carved from a sort of pearlescent stone that greatly resembled the interior of a ge'ay't shell. 

Alana positioned herself on the opposite side of the sculpture, gazing through the gap in the center at her companion. She smiled mischievously. "What do you think it is?" Alana asked, just as she had several years ago when they had met here for the very first time. 

"I don't think it _is_ anything," he replied with a grin. "I think it just is." 

"Well then, if you insist on being abstract, what do you think it looks like?" she continued the memorized conversation. 

He thought for a moment, "Flames, waves, dancers...What does it look like to you?" 

Her grin widened, "Lovers." She stepped back to his side, leaning against his shoulder and gazing up a the the creation. "Would you answer any differently now?" she asked. 

"Yes, now I would have to agree with your idea of lovers," he told her, deciding to keep his other insight to himself. In truth, it seemed to him that the sculpture could be symbolic of the two conflicting sides of his mind, torn between pride in his actions and guilt. And the gap between the two figures represented the distance that would soon come between himself and his lifemate. He shook these thoughts away, not wanting to ruin this moment with such sadness, and pulled her into a soft kiss. 

  
*****   


They strolled down the garden path which connected to the museum, stopping occasionally to admire the tiny, lighted sculptures lining the path. This museum was the only place where they could be found, and they were only kept here as a record of artistic history. They had been introduced by the K'rell'n traders who first contacted their people, but the attempted introduction of outside influences was considered a great insult. Trade had ceased not long after it had begun and these sculptures were the only remaining symbol of the brief relations. 

Zylene loathed them. It astonished her that any faction of her people could still allow their existence. But Rann'eal'teristi, current head of the Council was far too complacent to do anything about it. Of course, these sculptures were not the only sign of his acquiescence; there was also his recent "punishment" of the radical, Commander Mitth'raw'nuruodo. This man had ignored their most sacred codes--twice--and had only been exiled. Rann'eal'teristi and the rest of the Council were naive to think that simple exile would keep his radical ideas from spreading. If others who thought like him saw that the punishment would be so minor, then more would rise in his place. However, if Rann'eal'teristi had given him the maximum sentence he deserved, this possible rebellion would have been killed before it began. And so, to counteract the dangerous naivete of the Council, Zylene had decided to take matters into her own hands, and deliver the death sentence he deserved herself. 

As they passed by she pretended to work diligently on her drawing of the courtyard. She watched out of the corner of her eye as they took a seat at a bench in the central area of the courtyard. Perfect--she would be able to take a leisurely stroll around the path that circled that area and take her shot from behind...Or perhaps she would do this more directly. She would like to see the look on his face... 

She gave them a few minutes to get settled and when it appeared that they would be staying there for a while, she packed away her sketch book and materials and checked that her customized charric was fully charged and within easy reach. She stood and situated the bag that held all of these materials on her shoulder, once again checking the position of her weapon. She allowed herself a small smile as she started off at a leisurely stroll along the path. 

  
*****   


"'Wherein the deep night sky, the stars lie in its embrace. The courtyard still in its sleep and peace comes over your face...'" Alana quoted the beginning of the poem and looked over at her lover, giving a mischievous smile and silently challenging him to finish it. This was a game they had played often before he had begun taking distant assignments with the Expansionary Defense, back when they would spend entire days visiting museums and challenging one another to such intellectual games. He had always enjoyed a good challenge. 

"'Come to me' it sings, 'Hear the pulse of the land...'" he paused to think and sighed. "You know literature has never been my forte. Who painted _Visions_ ?" 

It was Alana's turn to sigh, "And you know art has never been mine." 

The two laughed, the sound echoing strangely off the walls of the courtyard. She rested her head against his shoulder as they lapsed into a pensive silence. 

What in the worlds was she going to do without him. Like him, she had lost all of her immediate family and if current feelings remained, she would have no friends to turn to. She would have to raise their child alone. 

What in the worlds was he going to do without her. He had been utterly alone for a good portion of his life, but that had ended when he met Alana. It was not a feeling he was eager to rediscover. And what of Alana? He could hardly bare the thought of leaving her to the same fate. She would not only be alone, but would be alone in raising their child--no, not alone. Daas'ten'talon had promised to watch over them. That only eased his heart to a small degree. 

He placed his arm around her, holding her close. How was he ever going to let her go tomorrow? He was about to disturb the peaceful moment and suggest that they move on before the mood became to solemn, but he was interrupted by a young woman carrying a large supply bag. He had seen her earlier sketching in another area of the courtyard and found himself wishing for a moment that he could see what she had been drawing. 

"Pardon me, Sir, but would you happen to know the hour?" she asked politely. 

He took his chronometer from his pocket and glanced at the position of the workings. "It is precisely the midday hour," he informed her. 

"Good," she remarked, a malicious smile spreading across her pretty face, "I'm exactly on time." 

He and Alana both gave her looks of confusion. Apparently Alana's concern caught the woman's eye. "Oh, didn't you know? Your lifemate is to be executed for his crimes," she announced removing a small, modified charric, complete with all the extras an assassin would need, from her bag of art supplies. He refused to flinch as she jammed the weapon into the side of his head, memories of the hideous alien warrior floating back to him. Did it hurt as badly to have the internal workings of one's cranium shot through with a high-powered energy burst as it did to have one's throat slit with a crude alien weapon? 

He heard Alana scream, but refused to look at her. He needed to think clearly and seeing her in the depths of despair would greatly impair that ability. He wanted to tell her how futile it was to scream. No one ever heard the screaming, they just dismissed it as a trick of the mind or the wind, they just ignored it and tried to vanquish it from their dreams. 

He shook away all these thoughts; it was imperative that he think clearly and develop some sort of plan. If those cursed guards hadn't taken his weapons from him, this would not be a problem. But wishing would get him nowhere. He needed to think. He closed his eyes and concentrated as hard as he could, ignoring his lifemate's sobs of despair and the cold pressure of the weapon against his skull. As it was, he barely heard the madwoman as she comforted his lifemate. 

"Shh...Why do cry for him?" she admonished. "Where do find tears for this murderer?" 

"He is not a murderer!" Alana shouted. "He is my lifemate. I love him." 

"How can you love someone who has no love for his own people? He is a disgrace to us all. He has brought shame to our ancestors, ignored the values and morals that they worked so hard to instill in our people," she spat out the words, each one practically dripping with disgust. She then turned to him, leaning close and speaking in a vicious whisper, "Even in exile you present a threat to our people. You want to bring about change. I cannot allow that to happen. The old ways must be preserved. The only way to ensure that this happens is to rid our people of beings like you and Rann'eal'teristi and all others who threaten our preservation." 

He spoke calmly, "On the contrary, I ignored the morals of our ancestors in order to ensure the preservation of our people." 

For a moment she was frozen by shock at the lunacy of his lie. It was during her split second of hesitation that the guards that had quietly accompanied the couple chose to act. Emerging from their hiding places--some in hidden passages in the walls of the courtyard, some in civilian garb hidden conspicuously, enjoying the scenery in other areas--they drew their own weapons. 

"Drop your weapon!" the commander of the group shouted. 

For the first time her eyes and her weapons left him as she turned to address this new situation. Her weapon swept around the circle along with her gaze... 

"No, you can't kill all 5 of them before one of them kills you," Mitth'raw'nuruodo quietly informed her. It would have been six, but one of them had left to escort Alana to safety. 

She whirled back to him, charric pointed directly in his face. "Shut up," she bit out. 

"He's right. If you fight us, you will not survive," the commander continued. 

This time she only half turned, weapon still aimed at her target. "Perhaps," she agreed. "But I will take him with me." 

They both acted in the same moment. He stood, one arm grasping her about the neck, the other grasping the hand with the weapon and twisting it behind her, trying to cause her enough pain that she would drop the weapon. At the same time he peripherally noted that some of the guards' weapons had changed their aim slightly. Of course, they thought he was dangerous. He had shamed his own people, why would he not murder them. 

In this moment, both his trust and hope for his people and his grip on her weapon faltered and she managed to fire a shot point blank into his abdomen. Against his will, he released her entirely and fell to the ground, clutching at the wound. The searing pain, which radiated from the wound setting every nerve in his body on fire, seemed to dim all of his other senses--he heard a distant, agonized scream and wondered for a second if Alana had witnessed this before he realized that it was his own voice he was hearing. He watched through cloudy vision as his assassin stood over him in triumph weapon pointed down at him, ready to fire the shot that would kill him. As he fought off unconsciousness, he saw one of the guards fire at the woman who had made the fatal error of leaving an enemy at her back. It was strange he thought as he lost his tenuous grasp on consciousness, how vengeance and hatred effected one's intelligence. 

  
  
A/N: The verse quoted by Alana was taken from the song "Courtyard Lullaby" by Loreena McKennit.   
  
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_I'm a feedback junkie. Like it? Hate it? Let me know!_ celina_marniss864@yahoo.com 


	7. Chapter 7

**The Politics of Exile**

_Chapter 7--_

by Dead Poet

  
His pride already wounded at having lost consciousness, he did his best not to flinch as the medical technician cleaned and dressed his wound and the burns that extended in circular patterns around it. 

"You were wearing a dissipator?" she questioned him. 

"Yes," he answered, almost wishing he hadn't been. The fairly new military technology still had a few bugs. One of which was the energy burns. The device performed exactly the function that its name implied--it dissipated the highly concentrated energy produced by charrics and other similar weapons, thereby making it much less harmful. Unfortunately, this dissipated energy traveled throughout one's body, weakening as it went, causing burns that lessened in severity the farther they radiated from the wound. 

"You should thank the gods that you were," she informed him. Of course he should. The beam that should have gorged a hole three inches in diameter into his body, through all of his internal organs, and out his back had, thanks to the dissipator only caused a one-inch laceration and a six-inch radius of burns. 

She finished applying his bandages and began making notes on her datascreen. "Just relax for a few minutes. I'll be right back," she told him. 

He tried his hardest to do just that, but with the incessant beeping of monitors around him, the pain in his abdomen, and the fresh pain of the antibiotic injection he had just been given relaxing was a very difficult activity indeed. Added to all of the physical discomforts, there was also the fact that he hadn't seen Alana since the guard escorted her away from the confrontation. He said a whispered a prayer that wherever she had been taken, she was safe and knew that he was all right. 

The nurse finally returned, looking a bit aggravated as she shut the door none too quietly behind her, leaving the three guards that had remained to accompany him a bit curious. She sat beside the bed and looked directly into his eyes, making certain that he knew that she was speaking in utter seriousness. "Your wounds are quite serious. Under normal circumstances, I would keep you here under my supervision at least overnight," she informed him. She continued quickly at his disappointed expression, "You being who you are, however, circumstances are anything but normal. I have just spoken with the Ruling Families and they have informed me that if I do keep you here overnight, they will proceed with your sentence as planned. At dawn you will be taken directly to the ship. You're authorized items will be picked up by your guards." 

He looked away, out the window on the other side of the room, fighting back angry, disappointed tears. He'd had so much more planned; there was so much more he wanted say to Alana... 

"It has come to my attention, however," she continued, drawing his attention back to her, "that today was to be your last day spent with your lifemate who is about to give birth to your daughter." 

"Yes, it was. But nearly being assassinated put a bit of damper on those plans," he reminded her bitterly. 

"That is why I have decided to discharge you now," he looked back toward her, his expression one of disbelief. "I just want you to take things slowly. No vigorous activity." She flushed a bit, realizing how ridiculous that was--it was the last night he would ever spend with his lifemate. "Well, not too vigorous," she amended. 

He smiled slightly, "Thank you. You've no idea how much this means to me." 

She stood and smiled a bit herself, "I think I might." 

  
*****   


He sipped quietly at his tea looking out over the city which lay in the valley far below. Arranged in geometric configuration, each building constructed so carefully it was practically sculpted, it seemed like an enormous, living work of art. To him, the most intriguing part of the entire arrangement was the family temples which circled the city and were connected by their tree-lined pathways. From this distance the entire arrangement looked almost like a star burst, the brightest points being the white stone temples along the outside, the darkest being the black stone kaa'pet'ale in the center. He turned his gaze to his left. Far more stunning than even this remarkable mountain view, was the vision of beauty who had suggested this picnic in the mountains. This vision of beauty who he would never again lay eyes on after dawn tomorrow. This thought desperately seized his heart and he could not tear his gaze from her. He wanted to stare at her as long as he possibly could, to memorize every feature so that no length of time could ever take away her image. 

After a while, she noticed his rather odd behavior. "What are you staring at?" she asked, somewhat amused. 

"The most beautiful being ever created by the gods," he answered. 

She smiled, even more amused. "Well, you don't have to stare. You can see me any time you want." 

His own amused smile vanished at her words, and he placed an arm around her, drawing her close as he realized yet another of the things that he would never again be able to do after tomorrow. "No, I can't. Not after dawn." 

"Yes, you can," she insisted, and before he could argue, she drew something from the pocket her skirt. She handed him a sheet of parchment and a small recorder. "I don't want you to read the letter until you leave, but I wanted to give it to you now because I didn't know if I would be able to tomorrow." 

He looked at the recorder for a moment before unfolding the screen and turning it on. He smiled a bit as the happy image of Alana and himself on the day of their Union filled the screen. After a few moments, the image changed to one of his family...The images continued, various images of various people, places, and things that he had thought he would never see again. Tears filled his eyes, partly due to all of the memories called to mind by these images, but mostly due to the fact that the gift was so very meaningful. She must have spent hours on this... 

"You can select one specific image to show, and there's a special file with documents I thought you would enjoy having," she told him. 

"Thank you," he whispered, embracing her tightly and staring over her shoulder at the mountains. At least he would have something to look at other than rocks and vegetation. 

  
*****   


After enjoying a glorious sunset, the couple headed home, chauffeured by a pair of guards. Until they stepped out of the transport and were met by the guards standing at attention, hands poised over their weapons, they had almost been able to forget that their chauffeurs were watching them like s'obr'el preybirds. Once the couple had entered their home, the guards returned to their station nearby to monitor the video and audio feeds that had been placed in every room of the house. 

Mitth'raw'nuruodo gently guided his giggling lifemate to the sitting room and onto the sofa, "Wait here," he told her, smiling slyly. 

He'd hardly been able to wait all day to give the painting to her. He'd been working on it for months--since before his ...trouble--in his little spare time and had been planning to give it to her on the anniversary of their Union. Since he would no longer be here for that, he'd decided to give it to her now. 

She sat curled up on the sofa wondering just what he had planned. With him, one never really knew...He suddenly emerged from his study, carrying a rather large object wrapped in a very pretty fabric and tied with a bow. 

She smiled curiously, "What's this?" 

"A gift," he replied handing it to her. 

She gently pulled at the ribbon and carefully removed the clothe, as though she were afraid that she may break whatever lay within. Tears sprang to her eyes and she let out a small gasp as she pulled the clothe away to reveal a beautifully painted image of herself and a young girl, obviously intended to be their daughter, smiling at one another in the midst a magnificent garden which was accentuated by the dried flowers that framed the painting. 

"Did you do this?" she asked looking to where he now sat beside her. He nodded, smiling. "It's beautiful," she breathed. 

"I'm glad you like it," he replied quietly, as she grasped him in a nearly crushing embrace. 

"Like it? I love it!" she informed him, smiling through her happy tears. After a moment, she released him and stood and gently placed the painting on the sofa. "But not nearly as much as I love you." 

She held a hand out to him with a sly grin which was met by a somewhat doubtful look. "Don't worry," she replied. "I'll be gentle." 

He raised an eyebrow for a moment, then suddenly a mischievous grin spread across his face and he practically leapt from his seat, scooping her up in his arms. He kissed his slightly shocked lifemate, "I won't." 

  
*****   


From his position next to the window--the same place he had been sitting most of the night--Mitth'raw'nuruodo stared out at the stars. In his time with the Expansionary Defense he had probably visited many of those distant points of light, and now he found himself wondering which one was about to become his new home. Was it even close enough to be seen? 

His heart skipped a beat, shaking him from these wonderings, as he noticed that the sky was beginning to lighten in color. Dawn was approaching. He forced himself to look at his chronometer--only two hours till dawn. Two hours until he would board a vessel and leave this world where he had been born, raised, trained, lost his family, fought for his people, fallen in love, been United, fathered a child, and now been convicted and sentenced to exile. Chances were he would never return. Never--that could be added to his list of loathed words right alongside chaos and exile. 

He looked over at his sleeping lifemate. Much of the night had been split between watching her and watching the skies--two things he had always loved to do, one of which he would never have the opportunity to do again. He would be so alone... There was another word he couldn't stand. 

He retrieved the recorder from t he pocket he had placed it in and turned the unit on. He watched the images come and go for a few minutes before he decided to take a look at some of the documents she had included. He selected one at random and a smile spread across his face as he recognized it. It was a letter she had written to him several years ago when they had only recently been United, and he had taken his first distant assignment with the Expansionary Defense. He had been gone for nearly 6 months and he had received and sent many such letters, but this one was the first. 

_My Dearest Love, _

How I miss you so. You have only been away for a few days but to me it seems more like a few years. A month will seem like a lifetime, several months will be an eternity. But I try to tell myself that I have a better deal. At least I am at home amongst friends and at peace. You, my love, have to be lightyears away amongst only co-workers and enemies at war. But I think that I would trade lonely peace for war by your side any day. 

I try to keep my mind off of my loneliness by staying busy, but everything I do reminds me of you. I go to the museum nearly every day (they have received a new painting by Trep'ica'solu and several sculptures by a new artist this week) and I have begun trying to write poetry. I go to the gardens, hoping that the atmosphere will inspire me, but the subject of my writing always turns to you. The one thing I have gotten accomplished is decorating our home. I have found that somehow you do not influence that particular subject (I am joking, of course). 

How are things aboard your ship? I hear things all the time about how bad things are out there, but I try not to listen. I know that no matter how bad things are, you are doing fine. And since I know that things are probably quite bad, I wanted to send you these words of encouragement. You may have your doubts, but I know that you are one of the bravest warriors amongst them all and by far the most intelligent. I have seen you sitting up at night, studying all of the different tactical attack patterns. Someday you'll be commanding the troops you're fighting with right now and you'll be inventing your own attack patterns. 

I also wanted you to know that I am doing fine. Yes, it is difficult not having you here, but if you can handle fighting our enemies so far from home, then I can handle being at home without you for a few months. While I am doing all right, I still hope you will right me as soon as you can. I shall continue trying to occupy myself. And I shall pray to the Seven for your safety. Think of me whenever things are peaceful, and I shall think of you whenever I am awake. 

I love you and I miss you. 

Alana 

Eyes brimming with tears, he turned the unit off, replaced it in its now-designated pocket and returned his gaze to the ever-lightening skies. At that time he had been worried about her being alone for so long wondering each day if her lifemate was going to make it home or not. And he had wondered each day if he would return home to her. He hadn't thought that things could get much worse than that, but at least then there had been the hope that they would see one another soon. Now however, they would both have to live each day knowing that they would never again meet. And he must live each day knowing that he would never lay eyes upon his daughter, and when she was born she would have to know that she would never see her father. 

He suddenly slammed a fist against the glass of the window, angry tears now streaming down his face. He leaned his forehead against the cold glass and glared out across the square at the kaa'pet'ale, still lit for the night. He wondered, did Rann'eal'teristi and the others who had pronounced his sentence have any idea just how many lives they had destroyed? He quickly and quietly grabbed a sheet of parchment and a stylus from a drawer and set to work.   
  
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_I'm a feedback junkie. Like it? Hate it? Let me know!_ celina_marniss864@yahoo.com 


	8. Chapter 8

**The Politics of Exile**

_Chapter 8--_

by Dead Poet

  
At one hour before dawn, Mitth'raw'nuruodo woke his lifemate, reluctantly since she was sleeping so peacefully. It seemed a shame to disturb such peace only to replace it with such pain. 

"What time is it?" she asked him a bit sleepily. 

He frowned a bit, "We have an hour." 

She nodded firmly, jaw set. "Do you have everything ready?" she asked quietly. 

"My trunk and all of my allotted items are waiting by the door," he replied, his voice a bitter whisper. 

For a long time they were quiet, Alana leaning her head on his shoulder, her lifemate placing an arm around her. Suddenly, she jolted upright. "Thrawn," she breathed, taking one of his hands and placing it gently on her slightly rounded abdomen. For a moment he felt nothing, but then--there it was! A small but strong kick. Their baby was kicking! They both laughed delightedly and he welcomed her elated embrace, trying to hold back a sudden swell of tears. This was most likely the closest he would ever be to his child... But he was comforted by the words of the temple student that suddenly returned to him: "Your lifemate will tell her the truth." His daughter would know him. She may never see him, but Alana would tell her about him and make sure that she knew the truth. And Alana would be fine, as well. Daas'ten'talon had sworn to protect them both as if they were his own. 

For a long time they remained in one another's arms, each trying to think their own hopeful thoughts about the future and watching the stars disappear one by one, engulfed by the light that continued to creep slowly over the horizon. When the sky just above the horizon was just beginning to turn a lovely shade of rose, they heard the knock that they had been dreading. 

Alana looked up at him, tears streaming uninhibited down her face, "No," she sobbed, shaking her head. "I can't do this. I thought I could, but...I just can't--" 

"Shh," he quieted her, choking back tears of his own. "I love you. And I vow to you that each and every day that I live, I will spend fighting for you, fighting to get back to you." 

He kissed away her tears and finally forced himself to stand. They both watched through a sort of disbelieving haze as the guards loaded all of his things onto the transport that would carry them to the ship. 

Seating arrangements aboard the transport were not the most comfortable. Mitth'raw'nuruodo--who had been restrained as a "preventative measure"--and his lifemate were seated in the two middle seats with two guards in front and one crammed in behind. But the seating was not nearly as uncomfortable as the atmosphere. Mitth'raw'nuruodo tried not to think about what was to come, Alana tried not to think about how much it bothered her that she could not even hold his hand, and the guards tried not to think of all of the horrible things that could happen if their captive were to free himself from his restraints, he was a dangerous radical after all. 

The entire trip was spent in an uneasy silence, the only sounds the humming of the transport's engine and the pounding of hearts. However, once the transport slowed to a stop, Mitth'raw'nuruodo found himself thinking that the uncomfortable trip had been all too short. He and Alana were ordered to stay seated for a moment while the additional guards, who had been waiting at the site, loaded his belongings. It was strange, he thought as he sat and waited, that throughout his three-day probationary period the guards had been rather lenient, keeping their distance and allowing him some personal time. Now however, he was being kept under lock and key, as if they expected him to do something rash in order to escape. He laughed inwardly; if he was going to do anything rash, he would have done it before today. In fact, the thought had crossed his mind that perhaps he should do something--blast the guards, commandeer their transport, and go hide somewhere in the mountains... But any such thoughts had quickly been dismissed as useless. It would be much better to take his punishment with dignity. At least then he may have a chance of someday returning. 

Soon the guards returned and opened the door of the transport. Inside had been an eerie, uncomfortable silence. Outside was the exact oppisite--ouside there was an angry thunder of voices, shouting taunts and curses at the traitorous being they were about to condemn. The only silence outside the transport came from the ring of guards who stood around it, doing their best to hold back the angry mob that crowded the area, trying to get a glimpse at or get their hands on the criminal. The mob outside the kaa'pet'ale after his sentencing had been bad enough, but at least they hadn't seemed violent. 

Alana looked to him, concern in her deep, red eyes. He gave her a reassuring nod and, taking a deep breath, stepped out of the transport. The already thunderous shouting grew even louder. At times one could actually hear individual words--murderer, traitor, words that should never have reached the ears of the children who stood shouting alongside their parents--though most of the time the shouting was entirely unintelligible. 

Alana stepped out behind him, and the guards quickly formed a tight formation around both of them. A few guards went ahead of the small group, shoving back the crowd in order to make a pathway. Mitth'raw'nuruodo looked up at the ship that stood before him--a typical civilian freighter--and the group that stood just in front of the boarding ramp. Rann'eal'teristi, Nael'are'tanari, and Mattl'ark'eari--the speakers for the Council of the Ruling Families, those who had condemned him to this fate--stood surrounded by their own honor guard. Good, he would be close to them. 

All too soon, he began the long, inexorable march through the mob. He walked with one guard in front, one on each side and Alana, with her own pair of flanking guards and the rear guard, directly behind. All the while he kept his chin up, concentrating on the ship that stood before him, trying to remember a prayer he'd had to memorize as a child, anything to keep his mind off of the angry crowd. He had fought so very hard for them... He stumbled as the first stone struck. He fought back a sudden wave of tears--everything he had done had been for his people...Another stone--was Alana all right? A glance back reassured him. She had not been hit. In response to this sudden, random violence--which was beginning to spread through the crowd--the guards broke their formation and drew their weapons. By this time however, two random stones had become a hailstorm. Thankfully, with the threat of weapons, the storm quickly subsided. But not before several guards had been hit and Alana badly shaken. And not before one final stone sent the traitor to his knees, coughing blood. 

Within a matter of minutes the outburst had ended and the transgressor had been apprehended and restrained. Dizzy and weak, Mitth'raw'nuruodo was helped to his feet by a pair of guards and continued on his way. 

At the foot of the boarding ramp he and Alana turned to face the crowd. Despite his wounds he held his head high as did Alana who tightly clasped his hand and allowed her silent tears to fall freely. 

"Mitth'raw'nuruodo, in a few moments you will leave this world, your home, and your people never to return. Before your sentence is carried out, is there anything you wish to say to this Council or to these citizens?" Rann'eal'teristi asked. 

"To the Council, I have much to say. Too much, I fear. And so I have expressed my feelings in written form to be read whenever and in whatever manner you wish," he replied, retrieving several folded sheets of paper from a pocket. These were checked carefully by a guard before being handed to Rann'eal'teristi. "To the citizens," he began and had to wait for their shouts to die down before he could continue. The guards drew closer to him, hands on their weapons as he began to speak, prepared for another outburst. "I must admit that your actions today have given me little hope for the future of our people. I am being sent into exile today because of my actions in war. My actions against our enemies were said to be too violent. You have called me a murderer, a radical, a traitor. And yet now, I have come under attack from my own people. Just moments ago I was stoned by this violent mob who is demanding punishment for my overly violent tactics. I find that rather ironic. 

"Secondly, I wish to stand up for myself one last time. I have grown weary of arguing over the rightness or wrongness of my actions, and so I shall make this brief. Right or wrong, everything that I have done during my service with the Expansionary Defense, from the most lauded defenses to the most controversial attacks, has been done for each and every one of you. I have never wished to do anything more or less than fight for my people. 

"Thirdly, I have recently learned the importance of forgiveness. I have been able to forgive myself for all of my shortcomings and I now wish to offer my forgiveness to the Council and to all of you for what you have done to me. 

"And lastly, I want you all to know that no matter how distant a world I am sent to, I shall spend each and every remaining day of my life doing whatever I can to protect my people. You may all be assured that I will do my best to find my way back home someday. I just pray that I will have a home to return to." 

The same crowd which had just minutes ago been a violent, angry, shouting mob had now become as still and silent as death itself. All of the members of the Council now wore rather somber expressions, even the usually smirking Nael'are'tanari. However, one could not distinguish between those whose silence and solemnity came from a sudden understanding of his actual intent and those whose reactions sprung from a worry that he would indeed escape his place of exile and return someday. 

"Mitth'raw'nuruodo, all rights and privileges outlined in the records of similar past proceedings having been offered to you, your sentence shall hereby be carried out, also as outlined. In a few moments you shall board this vessel, once again restrained and guarded. You will remain under guard for the duration of the flight and upon arrival at the chosen place of exile, your belongings will be searched and any weapons found amongst these belongings or on your person shall be confiscated. In addition to the authorized belongings you have chosen, you will be given two power generators and one standard issue hunting dagger. Subsequent to the unloading of these belongings, the vessel shall depart and you shall no longer be a concern to any member of this race," Rann'eal'teristi stated the formal conditions. Nael'are'tanari's smirk seemed to return somewhat at this. 

"So be it," Thrawn said, softly. He now turned to his lifemate who now sobbed uncontrollably. "I love you, Alana," he said, holding her close and gently wiping away her tears. 

"I love you, too," she choked out between sobs. 

"Be strong, Alana. And know that my heart will always be with you," he kissed her softly, "And know that wherever I am, I will always be fighting for you. I will return to you someday. That I promise you." 

She tightly clasped his hand and refused to relinquish her grasp until the guards forced her to so that they could replace his restraints. 

As he was ushered up the ramp, he clenched his jaw, refusing to allow the tears that filled his eyes to fall. Every step took him farther and farther from his home and family and closer to...well, he didn't quite know what awaited him. All he knew was that whatever he would have to face, he would face alone. 

The crowd had now grown quite silent; even so he barely heard the whispered words: "Peace be with you." He glanced back to meet Rann'eal'teristi's remorseful gaze... Had he read the letter? 

Once on board, he was checked for weapons by one of the six guards. They then removed his current restraints and placed him in the center seat where both his arms and legs were restrained. His arms were bound by restraints attached to the armrests of the seat and his legs by ordinary restraints. Once the normal flight restraint was fastened, he had almost no mobility at all. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to ignore the sudden wave of claustrophobia that assaulted him. Hopefully this would be a short flight... 

Alana fell to her knees, sobbing. He was gone... Her lifemate and the father of her child was gone and she had no real guarantee that he would ever return. She was alone... 

The boarding ramp closed and the transports engines flared to life. The roar was deafening, and everyone standing anywhere near the ship stepped back. Overwhelmed by grief, she hardly noticed the noise and could not even will herself to her feet in order to move away. He was gone... Suddenly, she felt the strong hands of a guard aiding her to her feet, urging her to step back. 

She collapsed again as the transport rose, turned and accelerated toward the skies, facing the rising sun which now peeked above the horizon, coloring the skies in a glorious crimson-orange and reflecting off the underside of the departing ship like a starburst. He was gone... 

Rann'eal'teristi finally tore his eyes from the departing craft and turned his gaze to the letter he still held. He unfolded the pages and began to read. His heart turned to ice and tears filled his eyes as he read the bitter words of the man whose life he had just destroyed. He had brought himself to suggest this punishment because he had felt that it was the right thing to do--the only thing he could do. As a warrior leader Mitth'raw'nuruodo had sworn to follow the Warriors' Code and all other Chiss codes and laws. He had broken those codes and this was the punishment he had deserved. Therein lay the problem--it was the punishment that he deserved. But he was not the only one being punished. Two other innocent people were also being punished for his mistakes... Two? Rann'eal'teristi stopped for a moment, trying to think of who the second person could be... There was his lifemate, but... He read on: Not only was his lifemate being punished by losing him, most likely forever, but his as yet unborn daughter would not have a father...daughter?! He had a child? Rann'eal'teristi glanced at the practically hysterical woman nearby. Of course... He should have noticed. But he had only seen her at a distance... Oh, gods... It was unfortunate enough that the Expansionary Defense was losing such a leader, but now to know that this woman was also losing her lifemate and this unborn child her father... He looked up at the ship which was now barely a dot in the morning sky, gleaming in the light of the rising sun. 

"What have I done?" he whispered. No one heard him above the woman's sobbing and the murmur of the crowd... 

Nael'are'tanari watched the ship depart, taking with it a rather dangerous nuisance whom he was glad to be rid of. Trying hard to maintain his somber expression, he searched the crowd and finally found his nephew. He approached him, allowing his grin to surface for the first time. 

"Well, there's one nuisance we're finally rid of," he spoke quietly, glancing at those within earshot to make sure that they were too engaged in their own conversations to hear this one. 

The young man eyed his uncle a bit doubtfully, "You really think they'll promote me now that he's gone?" he asked. 

"Why wouldn't they?" the other countered. "You've proven yourself countless times. You, unlike some people, follow the rules. You've served aboard his command ship almost as long as he has and now, with both commanding officers out of the way--" he broke off at his nephews suddenly confused expression. "Oh, yes. If everything goes well, Stent won't be returning to command either. He was Thrawn's second-in-command and did nothing to stop him. He's practically an accomplice." Nael'are'tanari smiled wickedly. 

His nephew returned the grin. "Now perhaps we should begin working on the rest of the fleet..." 

Mattl'ark'eari stood silently, off to one side, watching the scene. Such a strange mix of emotions...anguish, satisfaction, joy. She felt within herself, once again, a simple sense of inevitability. This is what had to be done. She felt badly for his lifemate, but sometimes it was necessary to cause pain to some in order to prevent pain to many more. Such was the situation here. War was unavoidable, but it must be fought as honorably as possible. His tactics had caused unnecessary suffering, albeit the suffering of their enemies, but their enemies were still living beings. And so while the pain it caused his lifemate was unfortunate, it was necessary to prevent the suffering of many more beings. 

Most of the crowd expressed a sort of grim satisfaction. They saw the pain it caused, but like her, knew that it was necessary. Justice had been served. There were a few people amongst the crowd who seemed more than merely satisfied, they seemed downright joyous. Her gaze fell on Nael'are'tanari, her fellow Council member, whose expression fell somewhere between the two extremes. 

Then her gaze swept over to Rann'eal'teristi whose emotions seemed to be the polar opposite. He gazed at the barely visible transport, the letter from the convict still clutched in his hand. Seeing the look of anguished guilt on his face, she found herself wondering just what that letter said... 

For the hundredth time in the space of only a few minutes, Mitth'raw'nuruodo found himself wishing that there was a window somewhere that looked out upon the world he was leaving behind. He wanted to watch it as long as he possibly could, watch it fade into the distance until it was nothing but a speck for he knew he would probably never see it again. But he could not. The only window on the craft was the one in the very front which looked out upon nothing but star-scattered blackness. He wished he could watch his past fade away; instead he was forced to watch his uncertain future slowly approach. 

He remembered the first time he had left his homeworld as a warrior with the expansionary defense. He recalled looking out at that same star-scattered blackness which had, at that time, had offered not fear, but opportunity. The unknown of space had been exciting; it had been an adventure. Now he found that the vastness of space still held the same mystery it had then, but that mystery was no longer exciting. It was terribly frightening. 

Thrawn could no longer stand to watch those stars fly by as the craft hurtled onward, could no longer bear to think that with each passing second, his home, his very life, became more and more distant. He wondered if his homeworld would even be visible anymore... 

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to clear his head of such thoughts. He could not dwell on the past or on the horrible injustice of his current predicament. He must think ahead to the uncertain future that awaited him. He had vowed to Alana that he would return to her someday, and he meant to keep that promise. But he would never be able to do so without a plan. And so he closed his eyes, doing his best to ignore his feelings of despair and the occasional wave of claustrophobia, and began what little planning he could do now. Most of his planning would be done after he arrived at the site and took inventory of all of the manufactured and natural resources at his disposal. Even then any planning he could do would be limited. But he could plan quite extensively for survival, which was the key to everything else. In order to return home, he would first have to survive long enough to find a way. He smiled slightly, most of his fears about the future having evaporated. As long as one could keep one's head and develop a sensible plan for all of the feasible situations, one had nothing to fear. 

  
***** 

  
After two days on board the small craft, restrained in his seat or held at weapon-point during meals or at any other time that required that his restraints be removed, Mitth'raw'nuruodo was almost glad to finally arrive at his place of exile. 

He studied the area, trying to commit to memory every clearing, mountain, and forest that was passed during their descent. Beginning now he must find out everything that he could about this world, commit to memory anything that may be helpful in finding a way off of this world. The craft finally landed in a small clearing in the midst of an equatorial forest--a very green forest. 

After a few moments he was released from his seat, his walking restraints were replaced and he was led down the boarding ramp to see his new home. As the rest of the guards brought out his belongings, he gazed about the clearing, looking up at the strange, green trees and studying the crevice-pocked cliffs in the distance. 

"Home, sweet home," he thought sourly as the ghastly screech of some sort of animal pierced the early-morning calm of the forest. After checking his belongings for weapons and finding none, two of the guards stepped forward. He was also checked for weapons and, finding none, the guards proceeded to release his restraints. One stood with his charric leveled directly at Thrawn's chest while the other released the locks. At least this was the last time he would have to endure this routine; there was something terribly unnerving about having a weapon pointed at one's chest. One never really got used to it, even when each and every meal was eaten in such a manner. 

One of the guards in the rear then handed to the apparent leader of the group a rather large pouch. 

"This pouch is not to be opened until this ship has launched," the guard ordered as he handed it over to Thrawn. 

The guards then began boarding the ship, preparing to leave him behind to fend for himself. The leader stayed behind for a moment after all of his subordinates had boarded. Much to Thrawn's surprise he smiled slightly. "Good-bye, Commander," he said, saluting as he turned and boarded the ship himself. Thrawn returned the salute, pleasantly surprised at this show of respect. 

But his heart sank once again as the ship rose slowly above the treetops, turned and picked up speed. He stood watching the transport--and his people--leave him behind. All too soon, the roar of the vessel's engines could no longer be heard, only the wind in these strange, alien trees, the sad songs of unknown avians...and that horrible screeching. 

He turned his gaze to the pouch that he had been given. He untied the laces and withdrew a beautifully crafted hunting dagger. He laughed bitterly, the sound echoing oddly off the trees. It was rather ironic. Why, that was exactly how he felt at this moment, watching the ship that had brought him here abandon him, much as his people already had. That peculiar feeling that had seized his heart at the very moment that boarding ramp had closed--it was just like being stabbed in the back. Yes, it was quite ironic... Stabbed in the back by the very people he had fought so very hard for and trusted with his life. But until this moment he had not realized that they had betrayed him; they had disguised it so very well. They had even had him believing that he had deserved it...and perhaps he did. But at the time that he had committed those acts, he had not actually expected to be punished. He had trusted his people enough to believe that no matter what he did for them, they would stand by him. They had betrayed that trust and he had made a grave error in giving it to them. 

And yet, he had to respect them. Yes, they had betrayed him, but...it was so artistically done. 

  
*****   


Grand Admiral Thrawn--weak, bleeding, dying--smiled slightly as a rather ironic thought occurred to him. This was the second time that he had overestimated the loyalty of his people, the second time that he had been stabbed in the back. Though the first time had been far preferable, being only in the proverbial sense. 

This time he had trusted his subordinates with his life. This time the error had been fatal. Years ago, because he had overestimated the loyalty of his people, he had watched the ship that had abandoned him to exile slowly fade away. Now, once again due to an overestimation of loyalty, he felt his life doing the same. And yet, he still respected his assassin. Yes, he had been betrayed and murdered... "But it was so artistically done." 

_Fin_

  
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